Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Is it a gentle lure that draws me,
or have I—
from the excess of longing—
bowed inward to myself?
Your fragrance stirred me;
I breathed your rose
before you opened
the door of presence.
My heart arrived first
to what you have not yet spoken.
Is it reproach that tempts me,
or did passion—
when it pleased me—
pour me from your blooms
until I drank my fill,
yet never quenched?
I draw near—
and madness of yearning
awakens in my blood.
I pull away—
and clouds of craving
thicken in my chest.
O longing,
what fire is this
that burns
whenever perfume touches it?
What sweet torment,
that the more I chide it,
the closer it comes?
My poetry’s volumes refused
anything but you as their poem.
O you who dwell in my books,
how long will your turning away last?
I ask for no arrival,
no promise,
no certainty.
I ask only
to remain
in this suspended moment—
between breathing the rose
and sipping it.
O you who entice
without pledging,
who promise
without words,
take my ardor as it is:
a fire that desires
to remain fire,
and does not wish
to be extinguished.
